


Arduus Ad Solem

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [4]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: M/M, Medieval Medicine, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 20:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12848898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: But … right now, in this place, with Diarmuid next to him, it feels different.  Diarmuid is nothing like the squires, knights, and lords who defined the man he used to be. He's nothing like the priests who served them, either.As he glances over at Diarmuid and gets a sweet smile in reply, he wonders if there is a different path, one he not yet travelled. One built on the actual truth, thorny, bitter, and dangerous as it may be.





	Arduus Ad Solem

**Author's Note:**

> Follows [Acta Non Verba](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12646713)
> 
> The Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners. I created only this fair use work of whatiffery, which is a labor of love, not lucre.

_Arduus ad solem -- striving towards the sun_

Father Simon is a dour sort of priest, the kind he feared as a boy, dreaded as a youth, and avoided as a man. He's done nothing but grumble, in French, with every stroke of the oar, about the added weight in the boat and how tired he is from the journey over to start with. This, despite Diarmuid's help with the other oar. The grumbling causes Father Simon to not pay attention to his task, so his oar slices, not strokes, the water on more than one occasion, causing the boat to skew.

This of course, is not his fault.

He has half a mind to tell Father Simon that if he grumbled less and used his breath for his task, he'd find it easier and less tiresome to pull his oar, but putting up with such annoyances is one of the things that came with his vow of silence. Besides, it's useful that such men as this silly priest treat him as if he's deaf or stupid -- their wagging tongues reveal oh so much more than they realize.

He'd take a turn and pull the oars himself, but for that stubborn Sister Agnes telling Father Simon, "Our quiet friend is still recovering from wounds which nearly took his life, and he must not overtax himself." 

She pressed a small bag with three jars of salve into his hands and said, "I wish it could be more. Remember to rest when you are tired. God is not done with you yet. Do not seek to undo his handiwork. "

To Diarmuid she said, "If he but thinks of taking an oar, give him a good clithering with it." 

He can't stop the snort of mirth at remembering the expression on Diarmuid's face at her words.

Father Simon sees and grumbles about being saddled with an Irish lackwit and an ignorant boy who'd be better as a swineherd, but instead has been permitted to take holy orders.

Diarmuid's face pinkens with more than exertion at the words. He can tell by the tight set of Diarmuid's jaw and the flash in his eyes that the youth understands _enough_ of what Father Simon has said, and knows that it is not kind. 

He reaches out to Diarmuid, gets his attention, flicks his eyes to Father Simon, and subtly shakes his head. _It's not worth it,_ he says with his eyes.

"What's it?" Father Simon demands in garbled Irish.

"My friend knows French," Diarmuid replies, slowly and clearly, not missing a stroke. "He can read and write, too. He's not simple, he's only taken a vow of silence." 

Father Simon's oar slices the water and the boat skews again as Diarmuid pulls true.

"Perhaps you should do as my friend does," Diarmuid continues, "and let us enjoy the sounds of the water in quiet."

It's petty, but he delights in the look of shock and chagrin on Father Simon's face.

Father Simon rows the rest of the way, face pale with rage, but he says nothing more, so it's just as well.

~oo(0)oo~

As soon as the boat is tied to the dock Father Simon storms away without a backwards glance. Fortunately, the priory contains a mixture of priests, so it's not hard to find one who speaks Irish, and from there, they are settled in the large room for visiting priests and pilgrims before they head for afternoon prayers. Diarmuid has a letter from the Mother Superior for the Prelate, but that will wait until tomorrow.

He kneels, sits, and stands with the congregation, Diarmuid next to him, softly singing the psalms, his voice light and clear. His mind, however, is blank. The words, which one held such meaning and comfort, do not come. There is only Diarmuid's voice, so he clings to it. Which makes everything better and worse.

He's known since childhood that he differed from the other pages and squires with whom he trained, and he's been down several bad roads because of it: wrath, cruelty, indifference, drunkenness, and too many attempts to find whatever it was his comrades got from time spent between a woman's thighs.

He went on pilgrimage and crusade to shrive himself of his sins, and in doing so ended up adding so many more to the tally, that in his heart of hearts, he wonders if counts, if anything will ever be enough. He wants to believe.

(He has placed his belief before in the hands of men, men who claimed to speak for God, and it has lead to nothing but blood, heartache, and betrayal.)

But … right now, in this place, with Diarmuid next to him, it feels different. Diarmuid is nothing like the squires, knights, and lords who defined the man he used to be. He's nothing like the priests who served them, either.

As he glances over at Diarmuid and gets a sweet smile in reply, he wonders if there is a different path, one he not yet travelled. One built on the actual truth, thorny, bitter, and dangerous as it may be.

All he knows is, he wants to keep pure this feeling -- one he dares not name, but which still swells, nonetheless, in his breast, like a seed about to burst open and send its first shoot towards the light and warmth of the sun.

It's a feeling as terrible and frightening as it is beautiful and thrilling. And he would not have it stop, though he knows all too well from experience the ways in which the sun's rays can turn from life giving warmth to annihilating heat.

It is his last hope for happiness, and so he clings to it.


End file.
